Baptized

I can’t even drink
Water
Without thinking
Of you

Pouring through my dreams
Washing away
My fantasies
And making yourself my reality

Cleanse my palette
I don’t want to be left
Without the taste of
Something pure on my lips

Nourish me
Keep me alive
For three days
At a time

When I don’t have anything else
My body will still crave you
And the baptisinal thoughts
You dive my mind in

Carve me up like a canyon
Like a river run through
My badlands, photogenic
You’re my companion

Through the thick and thin
Hell and high water
When the tide sinks cities
I’ll be drowning in all of you

I can’t even drink water
Without thinking of you
Is to say I can’t simply
Live

Without thinking of you

Photographer Nine

photographer nine
Canon 1000D, 1/400. ISO-800, 18mm. 1/15/2018, 3:33 PM.

You brought me along
To your version
Of where my life
Was manufactured

Where I was
Taken apart
And put back
Together

So you stand
In the frame
Unaware
Of the stakes

Of making
Your way
Into my
Memories

Happy Birthday – Journal 9/14/18

There are quite a lot of ways to go about this, but I figured this would be a good way to go.

This journal is dedicated to the love of my life, as she ages another year, and this time on the other side of the world. I figured it would be the best time to kind of describe this side of my life in a journal, and give a certain someone something to wake up to on their feed.

passengers

We met in a poetry class, and then again in international relations. It was almost serendipitous as to how I appeared, and she at the same time. A little over two years ago, now. Kinda crazy to think. Never speaking, really, until we did.

And after we really connected, much followed. In a lot of ways, she rescued me, and she’s constantly here to drive me to be the best that I can be, and achieve all that I can. Through creative passions, professional inclinations, hell, high water, calm, and all the chaos you can taste, we’ve been here for each other for what feels like a decade.

A very happy, very satisfying decade. Coffee dates, hiking, concerts, road trips, camping, movies, all kinds of stuff, and I can’t imagine even being alone while doing any of it. So much left on the docket, and it excites me to know that life is in the palm of my hand when it comes to making time.

I get someone to talk to pointless stuff about that still makes sense. Someone I get to hold hands with. Someone I find more enjoyment in being near than anything else. Being a poet only helps so far as I can describe how much she means to me. Which is further and further every day.

Nadine is the strongest thing I have ever encountered, and I am lucky to call myself hers with a tungsten ring on my right hand, and a copper one on hers.

Life isn’t always easy, however, and there’s much left of it to experience. Much more brooding, uncertain, and to be perfectly honest; utterly chaotic stuff is on the horizon, but the horizon is gentle and allows us to grow stronger before it arrives.

With this passing birthday, she’s across the world and I’m at home trying to make myself better every day so that when she comes back all the more experienced, we’ve grown together apart.

And you know, there’s so much left to the story. A lot untold already, and a lot yet to be seen, but that’s the gist of it: she’s the best thing that ever happened to me.

I’m thankful to belong to such a cool person.

She’s also started up her own website, and I dare say she’s more verbose and better at this whole thing than I am. So give her journals overseas a look here: https://sonadinewrites.com.

first kiss.jpg

So happy birthday, Nadine Nabass. You’re my favorite thing.

While it turns to autumn here, I’ll be thinking of you. And staring at my ring.

For those of you who are tuned in to Radio Reality City, I appreciate your looking at this journal! Not exactly regularly scheduled programming, I know, but when was the last time we had any of that? Quite a lot going on behind the scenes! I’ve said a lot here that I normally don’t verbalize on these journals.

Hoping

I’ve been
Flipping through
My notebook
Hoping that

I’ll come across
Cute notes you’ve
Left behind for
Me but blank pages

Are all I
Come across
So forlorn
So hopelessly

Closure

I shut the door on your foot
When you left it open
Honestly, I hope
I broke a toe or two
While I was at it

I was never sorry

But I know you will be
As you limp into obscurity

And don’t try to reach back
Under the door’s narrow crack
Because
I’ll just break your fingers, too

Hope it was worth every little thing
Thanks for making the mistake
Of leaving it open with no
Closure and
Leaving it there for me to gain
Leaving you in more pain

Than you would have ever
Inflicted upon me

Dysthymia

I wish there were a way
To make yellow the blue
Light shining in through
The window on you

It’s hard to see you so
Sad so often

No one deserves to see
Their sunshine shift away
So fast as to bend light
Away from itself

It sounds like a chemical
You’d find in a cigarette
Or your favorite
Bottle of liquor

Dysthymia:
Ye be warned who enter here
I am a monster and
Will feed your fear

It seems to take the ashes
Falling off the end
And tint them away
From anything you wanted

It peels back the spring
And goes back to winter
Gone is the sun through
The window

It’s been covered by
A curtain so it
Doesn’t hurt
Your eyes

I’m sorry this all happened

I’m not sorry for being
There, but I wish I could
Have done a better job
At being there

Id

Activate a miserable Wednesday
And wake up Thursday in the war room

No longer quaking
No longer puking
No longer panicked
No longer frantic

A shadow in a man
Waiting within
Made of malediction
And vindication
Some kind of sinister
Emotion wells inside

Thursday in the war room
I was wearing armor you made
For me
To fight inevitablity of the day

It had cracked and splintered
And the forces that be had then
Compelled me to split and crack
And deform to attack
The sadness welling within
That dared to well up again

I wouldn’t let it, so through
My helmet burst tendrils
Of old gods to smite the thoughts
That the pain had caused

Splattering my head against steel
Smashing my chest, so it could steal
The last motions of my living body
And keep it standing so bloody

It was already tomorrow,
Said I,
Yesterday, said the cosmos,
And then it was

Two days multiplied
Four days longer
Than the quantum pathways
Could have ever ensnared

I couldn’t cry more than I had
I couldn’t be any more mad
Already had left all my guts
Swirling the drain of my shower
After the stress became too much
And my armor was punctured

Not a knight in shining armor
Dressed by a possessed tailor

Damn right I wasn’t
I was berserk with no honor
Scrapping for the means
To wake up tomorrow

For whatever it means
Miserable Wednesday died two ways
And one was waking up
Thursday in the war room
Where I lived each,
In instants, pathway

Another uncertain world of id and ego
Struggles in combat to pick
Where the pathway goes
Only two options, but still so much
I hope the answer will merge
These two throes

Ziraleet

What a good Arab boy might do
In Jordan
Is perhaps go to university
Of some prestige

Might decide to join
The army, and excel in it

He might even go so far
As to be introduced into
The special forces

Why the clans speak
Of a good Arab boy
Who will do as he needs
To protect his reputation

Especially when it comes
To the harem of girls
Who are knocking down his
Door to be married to

His parents have warned him
To play by the rules
So when one angelic hijabi
Falls for him

He knows what to do
When they’re caught kissing

Three years after being
Together
Engaged
Symbolic of forever

He leaves her
Suddenly after a mutual
Expression of unapologetic
Love

Just like
A
Good Arab boy
Was taught

Taught to be cold-
Hearted special forces
Lying piece of scum
Who can’t bear to
Stand by
His love

Then the questions
“Was it love?”
“Was it real?”
“Should I not have

Shown him how I feel?”

Almost as if
They
Never happened
He’s gone with the wind

“Hadi, Hadi, Hadi,
If you go,
Where shall I go?
What shall I do?”

But he wasn’t there
To not give a damn,
He had already
Disappeared.

Like a good Arab boy
Should.

Protect his reputation
Special forces trained
To survive, resist,
Evade and escape

That’s all the training
He ever received
In
JSOC

Wasn’t taught to be
A man
By his parents
He was taught to

Be selfish

Kill all of her dreams
Crush the perceived
Infidelity of a gesture
Such as a kiss before

Marriage

Despicable, they might
Think

How awful that two adults
In their early 20’s
Would dare to decide
To share something intimate

Jordan Special
Operations
Command doesn’t
Have a motto

But the Central
Intelligence
Administration
Does

“And you shall know
The truth and the truth
Shall make you free”
And the HRT says

“To Save Lives”

To the emboldened
Arab woman held
Hostage reading this
I declare Servave Vitas

Because

JSOC taught him to leave
And his parents taught him
How to become a ghost
To the girl unknown now

The woman who is a woman
Unlike he who isn’t a man

She who survives
Getting by
And trying to find
Someone who isn’t
Of the same mind
As he

Was

While I can only
Imagine he was somewhere
Off the next day
Already trying to forget

And was successful

She improves herself
Everyday tirelessly,
Beautiful,
But ignored for fear

Of what a good Arab
Boy might get himself into

Bachelor’s of Communications
And full time jobs
And a love of travel
And a love of love

Are apparently nothing
A good Arab boy
Should strive to be
A part of

Who wouldn’t want
A world like that?

A boy who likes guns
And leaves when things
Get
Difficult for him

I can call him a coward
And I’ll call him a coward
For he is for certain a boy
Who doesn’t know himself

Who tirelessly pleases
His family
And all of his
Made up responsibilities

No, a good Arab boy
Loses every battle
Before he appears because
He lets all of his fears
Get the better of
Him

So he better crawl back
Home
On his stomach or back
He’ll limp in through
The back door
Apologizing for existing

Apologizing for being with
A girl while everbody else
Thought he was earnestly
A part of her world

Better tend to the family
He always thinks
Better tend to my job
He never blinks

And then there is her

I watched the aftermath
As she scrubbed his presence
From everything she had
Published

His face disappeared
His name was wiped away
Plausable deniability assumes
No one else knows

But I know though,
The whole affair
Was kept obscured
For his sake

I hereby call you out,
Since

A good Arab boy
Does what he’s told

A good Muslim woman
Dares to make gold
Of herself;
Ziraleet, servare vitas

“Save yourself
Of this child
And continue
Being bold”

BRRRRRT – Journal 5/20/18

neutral awareness.png
Captain Neutral, standing out.

Wow, it’s been so long since I’ve done one of these that I nearly forgot how I structured the titles. But I remembered how to write poetry today, that’s pretty fucking nice.

Today is a very prominent day in my history. It has to do with my introduction and coming-of-age story that occurred over the course of five years starting in 2013. Back then I thought I knew everything. And every succeeding year after that, I continued to. At least when I was in high school I was a real narcissistic prick, but college gave way to a more ego-minded person. At least when I got into college I was ready to accept I would be among peers. This was true for a while.

Still, self-awareness isn’t valiant in and of itself. You have to do something with it. Self-actualize a little bit. Not let the mandala effect take over and erase all the good stuff.

That’s why Reality City is organized the way it is. Over the years since its inception, it’s developed into this theory of metacognition and a way of visualizing it. I approached my psyche professor about writing a paper on it as part of an optional piece we can do this quarter, and he was fully on board. It helps that he double-majored in philosophy when he was going through his master’s program.

Wordy wordy word word. Sorry about that. It’s just been a while since I’ve done a journal, today is a historic day in my life for a variety of reasons, and since my last journal things have drastically changed.

I’m now under the employ of a full-time, benefits-giving job that effectively triples my wage. Relationship stuff last week entered a fever pitch and now we’re in the aftermath of an impossible decision, Kirke and I. I’m now a professional photographer today with the assistance of a couple of friends who needed some wedding pictures done. And I look towards the future with more vigor than I was looking a month or so ago.

Something today has been renewed in me. Maybe it’s reading poetry indirectly meant for me that does the trick sometimes. Or just getting out and taking pictures of some very happy people ready to celebrate each other. My life since 5/20/13 has revolved around relationships, and now more than ever that’s true for only the best of reasons.

With university looming, I’ve now decided to save up for a new car that isn’t quite as destroyed as my jeep (and it turns out I might like subcompacts, the newer manual Fiat 500’s to be specific). Which, due to recent events, is no longer marked with my name. Anonymity on my part is the current name of a game that I can’t quite yet talk about, but when I can the fucking doors are going to blast open. No NDA, but simple timing is a weapon right now that I must use effectively. Don’t worry, Radio Reality City will not be cloaked in obscurity for very long.

That being said, the title of this journal is the sound an A10 Warthog makes when it fires its guns! Which is exactly what’s going to happen when the truth can be wrought.

See, Reality City is all about reality. If you know your ingsocs or thought police, even reality can be subject to interpretation and mismanagement. My fear of memory loss has even made me aware of confabulation and implantation, which are actually even more terrifying prospects than losing it all entirely.

So today I’ve been able to open up my notebook for a good honest crack at writing I haven’t been able to stomach for at least a month. I’ve been producing, just nothing done. Kirke seems to think I’m too hard on myself, but I think that’s exactly the opposite of what’s going on. I’m not hard enough on myself!

And over the course of the last month instead of writing I’ve been really focusing on photography, drone stuff, graphic design, and a bunch of other things that aren’t primarily writing related. I’ve overwhelmed myself and needed to get my focus narrowed again. Getting to go do a day-long shoot with a few of my friends helped the photographer in me be satisfied for a couple of days:

cr8.jpg
They’re even photogenic on an off-profile!

And with the gold of May pouring onto trees at sunset I was able to get some good pictures of that, too.

And I’ve also been experimenting with a thing called “databending”, which is where you take an image, turn it into raw data (.tif file format works best, encoded with U-Law), put that data into Audacity, apply an audio effect to the result, and then retransmit that back into an image file (save as… mp3, but then change it to “other uncompressed formats” and apply your own file type extension).

It’ll turn this photo

she's drinking lemonade.jpg
She’s drinking lemonade.

Into this one

she's drinking databend.png
She’s drinking D A T A B E N D

And this was achieved with a reverb effect over 6 minutes or so of the resulting data’s audio. Quite neat to do! I’ve done this after some fractal stuff in GIMP. So that’s pretty cool, I think. I don’t know what practical use it’s gonna have yet, but hey, it’s a thing.

LOT OF DIFFERENT CREATIVE FRONTS I’VE DECIDED TO BURY MYSELF IN

Sheesh, this comes off of testing out stream stuff in this thing I posted today, too.

But today I remembered music can make me think. Not about 5/20/13 or 5/20/14 or 15 or 16 or indeed 17. I had to be Somewhere Else. So I listened to GH by Deadmau5 again for the first time in a long time and the creative taps opened.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll be able to churn some more out. I’ll take my camera to Pierce, leave my laptop here, and continue about my day with notebook at the ready. It’s a nice break from being buried. Probably been why I’ve been creatively blocked lately. I even got a proper twitter @JakeThomasShaw in my frenzy to expand. Still haven’t used it.

Back to the roots, eh? It’s 10:30 PM here and there’s coffee in my veins.

Think about it. A year ago, did you think you’d be here? I certainly didn’t. Voyagers, Foxes, Apocalypses, Destinations, Drones, and  Psychopaths. I never thought I would ever be here. Made it this far, though. There’s so much more to go.

Thank you for tuning in, once again. Radio Reality City survives off of listeners, for if there’s no one to listen to one interpretation, there’s quite no point in being different people. And then there’s no point to defining reality.

There’s only 73 days left to Year v! So go forth, make stuff, and consume reality!

Radio Reality City!

https://radioreality.city